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ROY    ROLFE    GILSON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

ALICE  BARBER  STEPHENS 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
HARPER  AND  BROTHERS 
PUBLISHERS  #  1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  November,  1903. 


lustrations 


WHAT    A    BEAUTIFUL    DREAM!  Frontispiece 

THE    PICTURE-BOOK Facing  p. 

BEFORE    YOU    WENT    TO    BED      .... 
YOU   SAID,  "NOW   I    LAY   ME,"  IN   UNISON 
MOTHER    TUCKED    YOU    BOTH    INTO    BED 
AFTER   A    BAD    DREAM 
WITH    FATHER    ON    SUNDAYS 
BEGINNING   OVER    AGAIN 


2229048 


Mother 


Mother 


you  said. 

"And  what's  that?' 
"B." 
"And  that?" 


You  sat  on  Mother's  lap.  The  wolf- 
wind  howled  at  the  door,  and  you  shud- 
dered, cuddling  down  in  Mother's  arms 
and  the  glow.  The  wilder  the  wolf-wind 
howled,  the  softer  was  the  lamp -light, 
the  redder  were  the  apples  on  the  table, 
the  warmer  was  the  fire. 

On  your  knees  lay  the  picture-book 
with  its  sad,  sad  little  tale.  Mother  read 
3 


it  to  you — she  had  read  it  fifty  times  before 
— her  face  grave,  her  voice  low  and  tragic, 
while  you  listened  with  bated  breath: 

"Who  killed  Cock  Robin? 
'I/  said  the  Sparrow, 
'With  my  bow  and  arrow — 
I  killed  Cock  Robin.' " 

It  was  the  first  murder  you  had  ever 
heard  about.    You  saw  it  all,  the  hideous 
spectacle  —  a  beautiful,  warm,  red  breast 
pierced  by  that  fatal  dart  —  a  poor,  soft 
little  birdie,  dead,  by  an  assassin's  hand. 
A  lump  rose  in  your  throat.     A  tear  rose 
in  your  eye — two  tears,  three  tears.     They 
rolled  down  your  cheek.     They  dropped, 
hot  and  sad,   on  the  fish  with  his  little 
dish,  on  the  owl  with  his  spade  and  trowel, 
on  the  rook  with  his  little  book. 
"P-poor  Cock  R-robin!" 
"There,  there,  dear.     Don't  cry." 
4 


"  But,  M-mother— the  Sparrow— he  k-kill- 
ed  him." 

Alas,  yes !  The  Sparrow  had  killed  him, 
for  the  book  said  so,  but  had  you  heard? 

"N-no,  w-what?" 

The  book,  it  seems,  like  other  books, 
had  told  but  half  the  story.  Mother  knew 
the  other  half.  Cock  Robin  was  murdered, 
murdered  in  cold  blood,  it  was  true,  but 
— 0  merciful,  death -winged  arrow! — he 
had  gone  where  the  good  birds  go.  And 
there  —  0  joy !  —  he  had  met  his  robin 
wife  and  his  little  robin  boy,  who  had 
gone  before. 

"And  I  expect  they  are  all  there  now, 
dear,"  she  told  you,  kissing  your  tear- 
stained  cheek,  "the  happiest  robins  that 
ever  were." 

Dry  and  wide  were  your  eyes.  In  the 
place  where  the  good  birds  go,  you  saw 
Cock  Robin.  His  eyes  and  his  fat,  red 


breast  were  bright  again.  He  chirped. 
He  sang.  He  hopped  from  bough  to  bough, 
with  his  robin  wife  and  his  little  robin 
boy.  For  in  the  mending  of  little  stories 
or  the  mending  of  little  hearts,  like  the 
mending  of  little  stockings,  Mother  was 
wonderful. 

In  those  times  there  were  knees  to  your 
stockings,  knees  with  holes  in  them  at 
the  end  of  the  day,  with  the  soiled  skin 
showing  through. 

"Just  look!"  Mother  would  cry.  "Just 
look  there!  And  I'd  only  just  mended 
them." 

"Well,  you  see,  Mother,  when  you  play 
Black  Bear—" 

"I  see,"  she  said,  and  before  you  went 
to  bed  you  would  be  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  a  tub,  paddling  your  feet  in  the  water. 

"You  dirty  boy,"  she  would  be  saying, 
scrubbing  at  the  scratched,  black  knees; 
6 


but  when   you  were   shining   again   she 
would  be  saying — 

"You  darling!" 

And  though  your  stockings  were  whole 
in  the  clean  of  morning  when  you  scam- 
pered out  into  the  sun,  in  the  dirt  of  night 
^  when  you  scampered  back  again — 0  skein, 
where  is  thy  yarn?  0  darning-needle, 
where  is  thy  victory? 

Summer  mornings,  in  the  arbor  -  seat 
of  the  garden,  Mother  would  be  sewing, 
her  lap  brimming,  her  work-basket  at 
her  feet*  the  sun  falling  golden  through 
the  trellised  green.  In  the  nap  of  the 
afternoon,  when  even  the  birds  drowsed 
and  the  winds  slept,  she  would  be  sewing, 
ever  sewing.  And  when  night  fell  and 
the  dishes  were  put  away,  she  would  be 
sewing  still,  in  the  lamp-light's  yellow 
glow. 

"Mother,  why  do  you  sew  and  sew?" 
7 


"To  make  my  little  boy  blue  sailor 
suits  and  my  little  girl  white  frocks,  and 
to  stop  the  holes." 

"Do  you  like  to  sew,  Mother?" 

"I  don't  mind  it." 

"But  doesn't  it  make  you  tired,  Moth- 
er?" 

"Oh,  now  and  then." 

"But  I  should  think  you'd  rest  some- 
times, Mother." 

"Should  you,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I  would.  Oh,  I'd  sew  a  little- 
just  enough — and  then  I'd  play." 

"But  Mother  does  sew  just  enough,  and 
it  takes  all  day,  my  dear.  What  do  you 
say  to  that?" 

You  pondered. 

"Well,"  you  said,  and  stopped. 

"Well?"  she  said,  and  laughed.  Then 
you  laughed,  too. 

"A  mother,"  you  told  them  afterwards, 
8 


tiH 


THE    PICTURE-BOOK 


"is  a  person  what  takes  care  of  you,  and 
loves  you,  and  sews  and  sews — just  enough 
—all  day." 

Since  mothers  take  care  of  little  boys, 
they  told  you,  little  boys  should  take  care 
of  their  mothers,  too.  So  right  in  front 
of  her  you  stood,  bravely,  your  fists  clinch- 
ed, your  lips  trembling,  your  eyes  flashing 
with  rage  and  tears. 

"You  sha'n't  touch  my  mother!" 

But  Mother's  arms  stole  swiftly  around 
you,  pinning  your  own  to  your  side. 

"Father  was  only  fooling,  dear,"  she 
said,  kneeling  behind  you  and  folding 
you  to  her  breast.  "See,  he's  laughing 
at  us." 

"Why,  little  chap,"  he  said,  "Father 
was  only  playing." 

Mother  wiped  away  your  tears,  smiling 
at  them,  but  proudly.  You  looked  doubt- 
fully at  Father,  who  held  out  his  arms  to 
9 


you;  then  slowly  you  went  to  him,  urged 
by  Mother's  hand. 

"You  must  always  take  care  of  Mother 
like  that/'  he  said,  "and  never  let  any  one 
hurt  her,  or  bother  her,  when  Father's  away. " 

"Mother's  little  knight,"  she  said,  kiss- 
ing your  brow.  And  ever  afterwards  she 
was  safe  when  you  were  near. 

"Oh,  that  Mrs.  Waddles.  I  wish  she 
wouldn't  bother  me." 

Under  her  breath  Mother  said  it,  but 
you  heard,  and  you  hated  Mrs.  Waddles 
with  all  your  soul,  and  her  day  of  reckon- 
ing came.  Mother  was  in  the  garden  and 
did  not  hear.  You  answered  the  knock 
yourself. 

"Little  darling,  how—" 

"You  can't  see  my  mother  to-day," 
you  said,  stiffly. 

"That's  very  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Wad- 
dles, with  a  forward  step. 
10 


"No,"  you  said,  a  little  louder,  throw- 
ing yourself  into  the  breach  and  holding 
the  door-knob  with  all  your  might.  "  No ! 
You  mustn't  come  in!" 

"You  impertinent  little  child!"  cried 
Mrs.  Waddles,  threateningly,  but  you 
faced  her  down,  raising  your  voice 
again: 

"You  can't  see  my  mother  any  more," 
you  repeated,  firmly. 

"And  why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?"  de- 
manded the  old  lady,  swelling  visibly. 
"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"'Cause  I'm  to  take  care  of  my  mother 
when  my  father's  away,  and  he  said  not 
to  let  anybody  bother  her  that  she  don't 
want  to  see." 

It  was  a  long  explanation  and  took  all 
your  breath. 

"  Oh,  is  that  it?"  cackled  Mrs.  Waddles, 
with  withering  scorn.     "And  how  do  you 
ii 


know  that  your  mother  doesn't  want  to 
see  me — hey?" 

"  'Cause — she — said — so ! ' ' 

You  separated  your  words  like  the  ABC 
book,  that  Mrs.  Waddles  might  understand. 
It  was  a  master-stroke.  Gasping,  her  face 
on  fire,  gathering  her  skirts  together  with 
hands  that  trembled  in  their  black  silk 
mitts,  Mrs.  Waddles  turned  and  swept  away. 

"I  never!"  she  managed  to  utter  as  she 
slammed  the  gate. 

You  shut  the  door  softly,  the  battle  won, 
and  went  back  to  the  garden. 

"Well,  that's  over,"  you  said,  with  a 
sigh,  as  Mother  herself  would  have  said  it. 

"What's  over,  dear?" 

"Mrs.  Waddles,"  you  replied. 

So  you  took  care  of  Mother  so  well  that 
she  loved  you  more  and  more  as  the  days 
of  your  knighthood  passed;  and  she  took 
care  of  you  so  well  that  your  cheeks  grew 

12 


rosier  and  your  eyes  brighter  and  your 
legs  stronger,  and  you  loved  her  more  and 
more  with  the  days  of  her  motherhood. 

Even  being  sick  was  fine  in  those  days, 
for  she  brought  you  little  things  in  bowls 
with  big  spoons  in  them,  and  you  ate  till 
you  wanted  more — a  sign  that  you  would 
not  die.  And  so  you  lay  in  the  soft  of 
the  pillows,  with  the  patchwork  coverlet 
that  Mother  made  with  her  own  hands. 
There  was  the  white  silk  triangle  from 
her  wedding-gown,  and  a  blue  one  from  a 
sash  that  was  her  Sunday  best,  long  ago, 
when  she  was  a  little  girl.  There  was 
a  soft-gray  piece  from  a  dress  of  Grand- 
mother's, and  a  bright-pink  one  that  was 
once  Lizbeth's,  and  a  striped  one,  blue 
and  yellow,  that  was  once  Father's  necktie 
in  the  gay  plumage  of  his  youth. 

As  you  lay  there,  sick  and  drowsy,  the 
bridal  triangle  turned  to  snow,  cold  and 


white  and  pure,  and  you  heard  sleigh- 
bells  and  saw  the  Christmas  cards  with 
the  little  church  in  the  corner,  its  steeple 
icy,  but  its  windows  warm  and  red  with 
the  Christmas  glow.  That  was  the  white 
triangle.  But  the  blue  one,  next,  was 
sky,  and  when  you  saw  it  you  thought 
of  birds  and  stars  and  May;  and  if  it  so 
happened  that  your  eyes  turned  to  the 
gray  piece  that  was  Grandmother's,  and 
the  sky  that  was  blue  darkened  and  the 
rain  fell,  you  had  only  to  look  at  the  pink 
piece  that  was  Lizbeth's,  or  the  blue  and 
yellow  that  was  Father's,  to  find  the  flow- 
ers and  the  sun  again.  Then  the  colors 
blended.  Dandelions  jingled,  sleigh-bells 
and  violets  blossomed  in  the  snow,  and  you 
slept — the  sleep  that  makes  little  boys  well. 

The  bees  and  the  wind  were  humming 
in  the  cherry  -  trees,  for  it  was  May.    You 
14 


were  all  alone,  you  and  Mother,  in  the 
garden,  where  the  white  petals  were  fall- 
ing, silently,  like  snow  -  flakes,  and  the 
birds  were  singing  in  the  morning  glow. 

Your  feet  scampered  down  the  paths. 
Your  curls  bobbed  among  the  budding 
shrubs  and  vines.  You  leaped.  You 
laughed.  You  sang.  In  your  wide  eyes 
blue  of  the  great  sky,  green  of  the  grasses. 
On  your  flushed  cheeks  sunshine  and 
breeze.  In  your  beating  heart  childhood 
and  spring — a  childhood  too  big,  a  spring 
too  wonderful,  for  the  smallness  of  one 
little,  brimming  boy. 

"Look,  Mother!     See  me  jump." 

"My!"  she  said. 

"And  see  me  almost  stand  on  my  head." 

"Wonderful!" 

"I  know  what  I'll  be  when  I  grow  to 
be  a  man,  Mother." 

"What  will  you  be?" 


"A  circus-rider." 

"Gracious!"  said  she. 

"On  a  big,  white  horse,  Mother/' 

"Dear  me!" 

"And  we'll  jump  'way  over  the  moon, 
Mother." 

"The  moon?" 

"Yes,  the  moon.     See!" 

Then  you  jumped  over  the  rake -han- 
dle. You  were  practising  for  the  moon,  you 
said. 

"But  maybe  I  won't  be  a  circus  -  rider, 
Mother,  after  all." 

"Maybe  not,"  said  she. 

"Maybe  I'll  be  President,  like  George 
Washington.  Father  said  I  could.  Could 
I,  Mother?" 

"Yes — you  might — some  day." 

"But  the  Jones  boy  couldn't,  Mother." 

"Why  couldn't  the  Jones  boy?" 

"Because  he  swears  and  tells  lies.  / 
16 


BEFORE    YOU    WENT    TO    BED 


don't.  And  George  Washington  didn't, 
Mother.  I  guess  I  won't  be  a  circus-rider, 
after  all." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  of  that,  dear." 

"No,  I  guess  I'll  keep  right  on,  Mother 
—  as  long  as  I've  started  —  and  just  be 
President." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  fine,"  said  she.  She 
was  sewing  in  the  arbor,  her  lap  filled  with 
linen,  her  work-basket  at  her  feet. 

"Mother." 

"Yes." 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  sing  a  song  now." 

Straight  and  proper  you  stood  in  the 
little  path,  your  heels  together,  your  hands 
at  your  side,  and  so  you  sang  to  her  the 
song  of  the  little  duck: 

"'Quack,  quack,'  said  the  Duck, 
'  Quack,  quack. ' 
'Quack,  quack/  said — " 

You  stopped. 


"Try  it  a  little  lower,  dear." 
" '  Quack,  quack/  said — " 

"No,  that's  too  low,"  you  said.  You 
tried  again  and  started  right  that  time 
and  sang  it  through,  the  song  of  the  little 
duck  who 

" ' .  .  .  wouldn't  be  a  girl, 
With  only  a  curl, 
I  wouldn't  be  a  girl,  would  you?' ' 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful,"  Mother  said. 

"Now  it's  your  turn,  Mother,  to  tell  a 
story." 

"A  story?" 

"Yes.     About  the  violets." 

"The  violets?"  she  said,  poising  her 
needle,  musingly.  "The  blue,  blue  vio- 
lets-" 

"As  blue  as  the  sky,  Mother,"  you  said, 
softly,  for  it  is  always  in  the  hush  of  the 
garden  that  the  stories  grow. 
18 


"As  blue  as  the  sky,"  she  said.  "Ah, 
yes.  Well,  once  there  wasn't  a  violet  in 
the  whole  world." 

"Nor  a  single  star/'  you  said,  awesome- 
ly, helping  her.  And  as  you  sat  there  lis- 
tening the  world  grew  wider  and  wider — 
^  for  when  you  are  a  little  boy  the  world  is 
always  just  as  wide  as  your  eyes. 

"Not  a  violet  or  a  single  star  in  the 
whole  world/'  Mother  went  on.  "And 
what  do  you  think?  They  just  took  little 
bits  of  the  blue  sky  and  sprinkled  them 
all  over  the  green  world,  and  they  were 
the  first  violets." 

"And  the  stars,  Mother?" 

"Why,  don't  you  see?  The  stars  are 
the  little  holes  they  left  in  the  blue  sky, 
with  the  light  of  heaven  shining  through." 

"  Oh!"  you  said,  softly.     "  Oh,  Mother!" 

And  then,  in  the  hush  of  the  garden,  you 
looked  at  her,  and  lo!  her  eyes  were  blue 


like  the  violets,  and  bright  like  the  stars, 
for  the  light  of  heaven  was  shining  through. 

She  was  the  most  wonderful  person  in 
the  whole  world — who  never  did  anything 
wrong,  who  knew  everything,  even  who 
God  was,  watching,  night  and  day,  over 
little  boys.  Even  the  hairs  of  your  head 
were  numbered,  she  told  you,  and  not  a 
little  bird  died  but  He  knew. 

"And  did  He  know  when  Cock  Robin 
died,  Mother?" 

"Yes.    He  knew." 

"And  when  I  hurt  my  finger,  Mother? 
Did  He  know  then?" 

"Yes,  He  knows  everything." 

"And  was  He  sorry,  Mother,  when  I 
hurt  my  finger?" 

"Very  sorry,  dear." 

"  Then  why  did  He  let  me  hurt  my  fin- 
ger— why?" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak. 
20 


"Dearie,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  don't 
know.  There  are  many  things  that  no- 
body knows  but  God." 

Hushed  and  wondering  you  sat  in 
Mother's  lap,  for  His  eye  was  upon  you. 
Somewhere  up  in  the  sky,  above  the 
clouds,  you  knew  He  was  sitting,  on  a 
great,  bright  throne,  with  a  gold  crown 
upon  His  head  and  a  sceptre  in  His  hand 
— King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  All.  Down 
below  Him  on  the  green  earth  little  birds 
were  falling,  little  boys  were  hurting  their 
ringers  and  crying  in  their  Mothers'  arms, 
and  He  saw  them  all,  every  one,  little 
birds  and  little  boys,  but  did  not  help  them. 
You  crept  closer  to  Mother's  bosom,  fling- 
ing your  arms  about  her  neck. 
"Don't  let  Him  get  me,  Mother!" 
"Why,  darling,  He  loves  you." 
"Oh  no,  Mother — not  like  you  do;  not 
like  you." 

21 


The  bees  and  the  wind  were  in  the  apple- 
trees,  for  it  was  May.  You  were  all  alone, 
you  and  Mother,  in  the  garden,  where 
the  white  petals  were  falling,  like  snow- 
flakes,  silently.  In  the  swing  Grandfather 
built  for  you,  you  sat  swaying,  to  and  fro, 
in  the  shadows;  and  the  shadows  swayed, 
to  and  fro,  in  the  gale ;  and  to  and  fro  your 
thoughts  swayed  in  your  dreaming. 

The  wind  sang  in  the  apple  -  boughs, 
the  flowering  branches  filled  and  bent, 
and  all  about  you  were  the.  tossing,  shim- 
mering grasses,  and  all  above  you  birds 
singing  and  flitting  in  the  sky.  And  so 
you  swayed,  to  and  fro,  till  you  were  a 
sailor,  in  a  blue  suit,  sailing  the  blue 
sea. 

The   wind   sang   in   the  rigging.    The 

white   sails   filled   and   bent.    Your   ship 

scudded  through  the  tossing,  shimmering 

foam.     Gulls  screamed  and  circled  in  the 

22 


YOU    SAID,   "NOW    I    LAY    ME,"   IN    UNISON 


sky,  .  .  .  and  so  you  sailed  and  sailed, 
with  the  sea-breeze  in  your  curls  .  .  . 

The  ship  anchored. 

The  swing  stopped. 

You  were  only  a  little  boy. 

"Mother,"  you  said,  softly,  for  your 
voice  was  drowsy  with  your  dream. 

She  did  not  hear  you.  She  sat  there 
in  the  arbor-seat,  smiling  at  you,  her  hands 
idle,  her  sewing  slipping  from  her  knees. 
You  did  not  know  it  then,  but  you  do  now 
— that  to  see  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  whole  world  you  must  be  her  little 
boy. 

There  in  her  garden,  in  her  lap,  with 
her  arms  around  you  and  her  cheeks  be- 
tween your  hands,  you  gazed,  wondering, 
into  the  blue  fondness  of  her  eyes.  You 
saw  her  lips,  forever  smiling  at  you,  forever 
seeking  your  own.  You  heard  her  voice, 
sweet  with  love-words — 
23 


'My  dearest.5' 

"Yes." 

"My  darling/' 

"Yes." 

"My  own  dear  little  boy." 

And  then  her  arms  crushing  you  to 
her  breast;  and  then  her  lips;  and  then 
her  voice  again — 

"Once  in  this  very  garden,  in  this  very 
seat,  Mother  sat  dreaming  of  you." 

"Of  me,  Mother?" 

"Of  you.  Here  in  the  garden,  with 
that  very  bush  there  red  with  blossoms, 
and  the  birds  singing  in  these  very  trees. 
She  dreamed  that  you  were  a  little  baby — 
a  little  baby,  warm  and  soft  in  her  arms 
— and  while  the  wind  sang  to  the  flowers 
Mother  sang  you  a  lullab}^,  and  you  stretch- 
ed out  your  hands  to  her  and  smiled;  and 
then — ah,  darling  !" 

"But  it  was  a  dream,  Mother." 
24 


i 


"  It  was  only  a  dream — yes — but  it  came 
true.  It  came  true  on  a  night  in  June 
— the  First  of  June,  it  was — " 

"My  birthday,  Mother!" 

"Your  birthday,  dear." 

"Oh,  Mother,"  you  said,  breathlessly — 
"what  a  beautiful  dream!" 


Father 


Father 


VERY  evening  at  half -past 
six  there  was  a  sound  of 
footsteps  on  the  front  porch. 
You  ran,  you  and  Lizbeth, 
and  by  the  time  you  had  reached  the  door 
it  opened  suddenly  from  without,  and  you 
each  had  a  leg  of  Father.  Mother  was 
just  behind  you  in  the  race,  and  though 
she  did  not  shout  or  dance,  or  pull  his  coat 
or  seize  his  bundles,  she  won  his  first  kiss, 
so  that  you  and  Lizbeth  came  in  second 
after  all. 

"Hello,  Buster  1"    he  would  sing  out  to 
you,  so  that  you  cried,  "My  name  ain't 
29 


Buster — it's  Harry,"  at  which  he  would 
be  mightily  surprised.  But  he  always 
called  Lizbeth  by  her  right  name. 

"Well,  Lizbeth,"  he  would  say,  kneeling, 
for  you  had  pulled  him  down  to  you,  bun- 
dles and  all,  and  Lizbeth  would  cuddle 
down  into  his  arms  and  say: 

"Fa-ther." 

"What?" 

"Why,  Father,  now  what  do  you  think? 
My  Sally  doll  has  got  the  measles  awful." 

"No!    You  don't  say?" 

And  "Father!"  you  would  yell  into 
his  other  ear,  for  while  Lizbeth  used  one, 
you  always  used  the  other — using  one  by 
two  persons  at  the  same  time  being  strict- 
ly forbidden. 

"Father." 

"Yes,  my  son. 

"The  Jones  boy  was  here  to-day  and 
— and — anjl  he  said — why,  now,  he  said — " 
30 


"Fa-ther"  (it  was  Lizbeth  talking  into 
her  ear  now),  "do  you  think  my  Sally 
doll—" 

It  was  Mother  who  rescued  Father  and 
his  bundles  at  last  and  carried  you  off 
to  supper,  and  when  your  mouth  was  not 
too  full  you  finished  telling  him  what  the 
Jones  boy  said,  and  he  listened  gravely, 
and  prescribed  for  the  Sally  doll.  Though 
he  came  home  like  that  every  night  except 
Sunday  in  all  the  year,  you  always  had 
something  new  to  tell  him  in  both  ears, 
and  it  was  always,  to  all  appearances,  the 
most  wonderful  thing  he  had  ever  heard. 

But  now  and  then  there  were  times 
when  you  did  not  yearn  for  the  sound 
of  Father's  footsteps  on  the  porch. 

"Wait  till  Father  comes  home  and 
Mother  tells  him  what  a  bad,  bad  boy  you 
have  beenl" 

"  I  don't  care,"  you  whispered,  defiantly, 


all  to  yourself,  scowling  out  of  the  window, 
but  "Tick-tock,  tick-tock"  went  the  clock 
on  the  mantel  -  shelf  —  "Tick-tock,  tick- 
tock" — more  loudly,  more  swiftly  than 
you  had  ever  heard  it  tick  before.  Still 
you  were  brave  in  the  broad  light  of  day, 
and  if  sun  and  breeze  and  bird-songs  but 
held  out  long  enough,  Mother  might  for- 
get. You  flattened  your  nose  against  the 
pane.  There  was  a  dicky-bird  hopping  on 
the  apple-boughs  outside.  You  heard  him 
twittering.  If  you  were  only  a  bird,  now, 
instead  of  a  little  boy.  Birds  were  so 
happy  and  free.  Nobody  ever  made  them 
stay  in-doors  on  an  afternoon  made  for 
play.  If  only  a  fairy  godmother  would 
come  in  a  gold  coach  and  turn  you  into  a 
bird.  Then  you  would  fly  away,  miles 
and  miles,  and  when  they  looked  for  you, 
at  half-past  six,  you  would  be  chirping 
in  some  cherry-tree. 

32 


MOTHER    TUCKED    YOU    BOTH    INTO    BED 


"Tick-tock,  tick-tock  —  whir-r-r!  One! 
Two!  Three!  Four!  Five!"  struck  the 
clock  on  the  mantel  -  shelf .  The  bright 
day  was  running  away  from  you,  leaving 
you  far  behind  to  be  caught,  at  half-past 
six  —  caught  and  .  .  . 

But  Father  might  not  come  home  to 
supper  to-night !  Once  he  did  not.  At 
the  thought  the  sun  lay  warm  upon  your 
cheek,  and  you  rapped  on  the  pane  bravely 
at  the  dicky-bird  outside.  The  bird  flew 
away. 

"Tick-tock,  tick-tock,  tick-tock,  tick- 
tock." 

Swiftly  the  day  passed.  Terribly  fell 
the  black  night,  fastening  its  shadows  on 
you  and  all  the  world.  Grimly  Mother 
passed  you,  without  a  look  or  word.  She 
pulled  down  the  window  shades.  One 
by  one  she  lighted  the  lamps — the  tall 
piano-lamp  with  the  red  globe,  the  little 
3  33 


green  lamp  on  the  library-table,  the  hang- 
ing lamp  in  the  dining-room.  Already 
the  supper-table  was  set. 

The  clock  struck  six ! 

You  watched  Mother  out  of  the  corners 
of  your  eyes.  Had  she  forgotten? 

"Mother,"  you  said,  engagingly.  "See 
me  stand  on  one  leg." 

"  Mother  does  not  care  to  look  at  naughty 
little  boys." 

"Tick-tock,  tick-tock,  tick-tock,  tick- 
tock." 

You  were  very  little  to  punish.  Be- 
sides, you  were  not  feeling  very  well.  It 
was  not  your  tummy,  nor  your  head,  nor 
yet  the  pussy-scratch  on  your  finger.  It 
was  a  deeper  pain. 

"Tick-tock,  tick-tock." 

If  you  should  die  like  the  Jones  boy's 
little  brother  and  be  put  in  the  cemetery 
on  the  hill,  they  would  be  sorry. 
34 


"Tick-tock,  tick-tock." 

Mother  went  to  the  window  and  peered 
out. 

"TICK-TOCK!" 

"Whir-r-r— " 

And  the  clock  struck  half-past  six! 

Steps  sounded  upon  the  porch — Mother 
was  going  to  the  door — it  opened! 

"Where's  Buster?" 

And  Mother  told! 

.  .  .  And  somehow  when  Father  spank- 
ed it  always  seemed  as  if  he  were  med- 
dling. He  was  an  outsider  all  day.  Why, 
then,  did  he  concern  himself  so  mightily 
at  night? 

After  supper  Father  would  sit  before 
the  fire  with  you  on  one  knee  and  Lizbeth 
on  the  other,  while  Mother  sewed,  till  by- 
and-by,  just  when  you  were  most  comfy 
and  the  talk  most  charming,  he  would  say : 

"Well,  Father  must  go  now/' 
35 


"Oh  no,  Father.     Don't  go  yet." 

"But  Father  must.  He  must  go  to 
Council-meeting. " 

"What's  a  Council  -  meeting,  Father?" 
you  asked,  and  while  he  was  telling  you 
he  would  be  putting  on  his  coat. 

"Don't  sit  up  for  me,"  he  would  tell 
Mother,  and  the  door  would  shut  at  half- 
past  seven  just  as  it  had  opened  at  half- 
past  six,  with  the  same  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  porch. 

"Oh,  dear,"  you  would  say.  "Father's 
always  going  somewhere.  I  guess  he 
doesn't  like  to  stay  home,  Mother." 

Then  Mother  would  take  you  and  Liz- 
beth  on  her  lap. 

"Dearies,  Father  would  love  to  stay 
at  home  and  play  with  you  and  Mother, 
but  he  can't.  All  day  long  he  has  to 
work  to  take  care  of  us  and  buy  us  bread- 
and-butter — " 


a»^4X£4dCb 

:*  /•& 


WL 


"And  chocolate  cake,  Mother?" 
"Yes,  and  chocolate  cake.  And  he 
goes  to  the  Council  to  help  the  other  men 
take  care  of  Ourtown  so  that  the  burglars 
won't  get  in  or  the  street-lamps  go  out 
and  leave  us  in  the  dark." 

Your  eyes  were  very  round.  That  night 
after  you  and  Lizbeth  were  in  bed  and  the 
lights  were  out,  you  thought  of  the  Council 
and  the  burglars  so  that  you  could  not 
sleep,  and  while  you  lay  there  thinking, 
the  wolf  -  wind  began  to  howl  outside. 
Then  suddenly  you  heard  the  patter,  patter, 
patter  of  its  feet  upon  the  roof.  You  shud- 
dered and  drew  the  bedclothes  over  your 
head.  What  if  It  got  inside?  Could  It 
bite  through  the  coverlet  with  its  sharp 
teeth?  Would  the  Council  come  and  save 
you  just  in  time?  .  .  .  Which  would  be 
worse,  a  wolf  or  a  burglar?  A  wolf,  of 
course,  for  a  burglar  might  have  a  little 
37 


boy  of  his  own  somewhere,  in  bed,  curled 
up  and  shivering,  with  the  covers  over  his 
head.  .  .  .  But  what  if  the  burglar  had 
no  little  boy?  Did  burglars  ever  have 
little  boys?  .  .  .  How  could  a  man  ever 
be  brave  enough  to  be  a  burglar,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  crawling  through  windows 
into  pitch-dark  rooms,  .  .  .  into  little  boys' 
rooms,  .  .  .  crawling  in  stealthily  with 
pistols  and  false-faces  and  1-lanterns?  .  .  . 

But  That  One  was  crawling  in!  Right 
into  your  room,  .  .  .  right  in  over  the  win- 
dow-sill, .  .  .  like  a  cat,  .  .  .  with  a  false- 
face  on,  and  pistols,  loaded  and  pointed 
right  at  you.  .  .  .  You  tried  to  call;  .  .  . 
your  voice  was  dried  up  in  your  throat, 
.  .  .  and  all  the  time  He  was  coming 
nearer,  .  .  .  nearer,  .  .  .  nearer  .  .  . 

"  Bad  dream,  was  it,  little  chap?"  asked 
the  Council,  holding  you  close  to  his  coat, 
all  smoky  of  cigars,  and  patting  your  cheek. 
38 


1 


"F-father,  where  did  he  go?" 

"Who  go,  my  boy?" 

"Why,  the  burglar,  Father." 

"There  wasn't  any  burglar,  child." 

"Why,  yes,  Father.  I  saw  him.  Right 
there.  Coming  through  the  window." 

And  it  took  Father  and  Mother  and 
two  oatmeal  crackers  and  a  drink  of  water 
to  convince  you  that  it  was  all  a  dream. 
So  whether  it  was  in  frightening  burglars 
away,  or  keeping  the  street-lamps  burning, 
or  smoking  cigars,  or  soothing  a  little  boy 
with  a  nightmare  and  a  fevered  head,  the 
Council  was  a  useful  body,  and  always 
came  just  in  time. 

On  week-day  mornings  Father  had  gone 
to  work  when  you  came  down-stairs,  but 
on  Sunday  mornings,  when  you  awoke,  a 
trifle  earlier  if  anything — 

"Father!" 

Silence. 

39 


"Father!"  a  little  louder. 

Then  a  sleepy  "Yes." 

"We  want  to  get  up." 

"It  isn't  time  yet.  You  children  go  to 
sleep." 

You  waited.     Then — 

"Father,  is  it  time  yet?" 

"No.     You  children  lie  still." 

So  you  and  Lizbeth,  wide-awake,  whis- 
pered together;  and  then,  to  while  away 
the  time  while  Father  slept,  you  played 
Indian,  which  required  two  little  yells 
from  you  to  begin  with  (when  the  Indian 
You  arrived  in  your  war-paint)  and  two 
big  yells  from  Lizbeth  to  end  with  (when 
the  Paleface  She  was  being  scalped). 

Then  Father  said  it  was  "no  use,"  and 
Mother  took  a  hand.  You  were  quiet  after 
that,  but  it  was  yawny  lying  there  with 
the  sun  so  high.  You  listened.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  Father  and  Mother's 
40 


AFTER    A    BAD    DREAM 


room.  You  rose  cautiously,  you  and  Liz- 
beth,  in  your  little  bare  feet.  You  stole 
softly  across  the  floor.  The  door  was  a 
crack  open,  so  you  peeked  in,  your  face 
even  with  the  knob  and  Lizbeth's  just 
below.  And  then,  at  one  and  the  same 
instant,  you  both  said  "  Boo!"  and  grinned  ; 
and  the  harder  you  grinned  the  harder 
Father  tried  not  to  laugh,  which  was  a  ( 
sign  that  you  could  scramble  into  bed  with 
him,  you  on  one  side  and  Lizbeth  on  the 
other,  cuddling  down  close  while  Mother 
went  to  see  about  breakfast. 

It  was  very  strange,  but  while  it  had 
been  so  hard  to  drowse  in  your  own  bed, 
the  moment  you  were  in  Father's  you 
did  not  want  to  get  up  at  all.  Indeed,  it 
was  Father  who  wanted  to  get  up  first, 
and  it  was  you  who  cried  that  it  was  not 
time. 

Week-days  were  always  best  for  most 


things,  but  for  two  reasons  Sunday  was  the 
best  day  of  all.  One  reason  was  Sunday 
dinner.  The  other  was  Father.  On  Sun- 
day the  dinner-table  was  always  whitest 
with  clean  linen  and  brightest  with  silver 
and  blue  china  and  fullest  of  good  things 
to  eat,  and  sometimes  Company  came  and 
brought  their  children  with  them.  On  Sun- 
day, too,  there  was  no  store  to  keep,  and 
Father  could  stay  at  home  all  day. 

He  came  down  to  breakfast  in  slippers 
and  a  beautiful,  wide  jacket,  which  was 
brown  to  match  the  coffee  he  always  took 
three  cups  of,  and  the  cigar  which  he  smoked 
afterwards  in  a  big  chair  with  his  feet 
thrust  out  on  a  little  one.  While  he  smoked 
he  would  read  the  paper,  and  sometimes  he 
would  laugh  and  read  it  out  loud  to  Mother  ; 
and  sometimes  he  would  say,  "That's  so/' 
and  lay  down  his  paper  and  talk  to  Moth- 
er like  the  minister's  sermon.  And  once 
42 


he  talked  so  loudly  that  he  said  "Damn." 
Mother  looked  at  you,  for  you  were  listening, 
and  sent  you  for  her  work-basket  up-stairs. 
After  that,  when  you  talked  loudest  to  Liz- 
beth  or  the  Jones  boy,  you  said  "Damn," 
too,  like  Father,  till  Mother  overheard  you 
and  explained  that  only  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers and  bad  little  boys  ever  said  such 
things.  It  wasn't  a  pretty  word,  she  said, 
for  nice  little  boys  like  you. 

"  But,  Mother,  if  the  bad  little  boys  say 
it,  why  do  the  good  fathers  say  it — hm?" 

Mother  explained  that,  too.     Little  boys 
should  mind  their  mothers,  she  said. 

It  was  easy  enough  not  to  say  the  word 
when  you  talked  softly,  but  when  you 
talked  loudest  it  was  hard  to  remember 
what  Mother  said.  For  when  you  talked 
softly,  somehow,  you  always  remembered 
Mother,  and  when  you  talked  loudly  it 
was  Father  you  remembered  best. 
43 


The  sun  rose  high  and  warm.  It  was  a 
long  time  after  breakfast.  Fragrance  came 
from  the  kitchen  to  where  you  sat  in  the 
library,  all  dressed-up,  looking  at  picture- 
books  and  waiting  for  dinner,  and  wonder- 
ing if  there  would  be  pie.  Father  was  all 
dressed-up,  too,  and  while  he  read  silently, 
you  and  Lizbeth  felt  his  cheeks  softly  with 
your  ringer  -  tips.  Where  the  prickers  had 
been  at  breakfast-time  it  was  as  smooth 
as  velvet  now.  Father's  collar  was  as 
white  as  snow.  In  place  of  his  jacket  he 
wore  his  long,  black  Sunday  coat,  and  in 
his  shoes  you  could  almost  see  your  face. 

"Father's  beautifulest  on  Sunday,"  Liz- 
beth said. 

"So  am  I,"  you  said,  proudly,  looking 
down  your  blouse  and  trousers  to  the  shine 
of  your  Sunday  shoes. 

"So  are  you,  too,"  you  added  kindly  to 
Lizbeth,  who  was  all  in  white  and  curls. 
44 


ffl 

r 


Then  you  drew  a  little  chair  beside 
Father's  and  sat,  quiet  and  very  straight, 
with  your  legs  crossed  carelessly  like  his 
and  an  open  book  like  his  in  your  lap. 
And  when  Father  changed  his  legs,  you 
changed  your  legs,  too.  Lizbeth  looked 
at  you  two  awhile  awesomely.  Then  she 
brought  her  little  red  chair  and  sat  beside 
you  with  the  Aladdin  book  on  her  lap, 
but  she  did  not  cross  her  legs.  And  so 
you  sat  there,  all  three,  clean  and  dressed- 
up  and  beautiful,  by  the  bay-window,  while 
the  sun  lay  warm  and  golden  on  the  library 
rug,  and  sweeter  and  sweeter  grew  the 
kitchen  smells. 

Then  dinner  came,  and  the  last  of  it  was 
best  because  it  was  sweetest,  and  if  Com- 
pany were  not  there  you  cried: 

"It's  going  to  be  pie  to-day,  isn't  it, 
Mother?" 

But  Mother  would  only  smile  mysterious- 
45 


ly  while  the  roast  was  carried  away.  Then 
Lizbeth  guessed. 

"It's  pudding,"  she  said. 

"  No,  pie,"  you  cried  again,  "  'cause  yes- 
terday was  pudding." 

"Now,  Father,  you  guess,"  said  Lizbeth. 

"I  guess?" 

"Yes,  Father." 

And  at  that  Father  would  knit  his  brows 
and  put  one  finger  to  one  side  of  his  nose, 
so  that  he  could  think  the  harder,  and  by- 
and-by  he  would  say : 

"I  know.     I'll  bet  it's  custard." 

"Oh  no,  Father,"  you  broke  in,  for  you 
liked  pie  best,  and  even  to  admit  the 
possibility  of  custard,  aloud,  might  make 
it  come  true. 

"Then  it's  lemon  jelly  with  cream," 
said  Father,  trying  another  finger  to  his 
nose  and  pondering  deeply. 

"Oh,  you  only  have  one  guess,"  cried 
46 


you  and  Lizbeth  together,  and  Father,  cor- 
nered, stuck  to  the  jelly  and  cream. 

"Oh,  dear,"  Lizbeth  said,  "I  don't  see 
what  good  it  does  to  brush  off  the  crumbs 
in  the  middle  of  dinner." 

Silence  fell  upon  the  table,  you  and  Liz- 
beth holding  Father's  outstretched  hands. 
Your  eyes  were  wide,  the  better  to  see. 
Your  lips  were  parted,  the  better,  doubt- 
less, to  hear.  Only  Mother  was  serene,  for 
only  Mother  knew.  And  then  through  the 
stillness  came  the  sound  of  rattling  plates. 

"Pie,"  you  whispered. 

"Pudding,"  whispered  Lizbeth. 

"Jelly,"  whispered  Father,  hoarsely. 

The  door  swung  open.  You  rose  in 
your  seats,  you  and  Lizbeth  and  Father, 
craning  your  necks  to  see,  and,  seeing — 

"Pie!"  you  cried,  triumphantly. 

"Ah!"  said  Father,  lifting  his  pie-crust 
gayly  with  the  tip  of  his  fork. 
47 


"Apples,"  you  said,  peeping  under  your 
crust. 

"Apples,  my  son?  Apples?  Why,  no. 
Bless  my  soul!  As  I  live,  this  is  a  robber's 
cave  filled  with  sacks  of  gold." 

"Oh,  Father!"  you  cried,  incredulous, 
not  knowing  how  to  take  him  yet;  but 
you  peeped  again,  and  under  your  pie- 
crust it  was  like  a  cave,  and  the  little  slices 
of  juicy  apple  lay  there  like  sacks  of  gold. 

"And  see!"  said  Father,  pointing  with 
his  fork,    "there  is  the  entrance  to   the 
cave,  and  when  the  policemen  chased  the  \ 
robbers— pop!   they  went,  right  into  their 
hole,  like  rabbits." 

And  sure  enough,  in  the  upper  crusts 
were  the  little  cuts  through  which  the 
robbers  popped.  Your  eyes  widened. 

"And  oh,  Father,"  you  said,  "the  smoke 
can  come  out  through  the  little  holes  when 
the  robbers  build  their  fire." 
48 


WITH    FATHER    ON    SUNDAYS 


"Aha!"  cried  Father,  fiercely.  "I'm  the 
policeman  breaking  into  the  cave  while 
the  robbers  are  away,"  and  he  took  a  bite. 

"And  I'm  another  policeman,"  you  cried, 
catching  the  spirit  of  the  thing  and  taking 
a  bigger  bite  than  Father's. 

"And  I'm  a  policeman's  wife  coming 
along,  too,"  said  Lizbeth,  helping  herself, 
so  that  Mother  said: 

"John,  John,  how  am  I  ever  going  to 
teach  these  children  table  manners  when — " 

"But  see,  Mother,  see!"  Father  explain- 
ed, taking  another  bite,  and  ignoring  Moth- 
er's eyes.  "  If  we  don't  get  the  gold  away 
the  robbers  will  come  back  and — " 

"Kill  us!"  you  broke  in. 

"Yes,  kill  us,  Mother!"  shouted  Father, 
balancing  another  sack  of  gold  on  the  end 
of  his  fork.  "  Yes,  yes,  Mother,  don't  you 
see?" 

"I  see,"  said  Mother,  just  between  laugh 
4  49 


and  frown,  and  when  the  robbers  came 
back  around  the  coffee-pot  hill,  lo!  there 
was  no  gold  or  cave  awaiting  them — only 
three  plates  scraped  clean,  and  two  jubilant 
policemen  and  a  policeman's  wife,  full  of 
gold. 

And  when  Father  was  Father  again, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  Mother's  chair, 
she  said  to  him,  "You're  nothing  but  a 
great  big  boy,"  so  that  Father  chuckled, 
his  cheek  against  hers  and  his  eyes  shin- 
ing. That  was  the  way  with  Father.  Six 
days  he  found  quite  long  enough  to  be  a 
man;  so  on  Sunday  he  became  a  boy. 

The  gate  clicked  behind  you,  Father  in 
the  middle  and  you  and  Lizbeth  holding 
each  a  hand,  and  keeping  step  with  him 
when  you  could,  running  a  little  now  and 
then  to  catch  up  again.  Your  steps  were 
always  longest  on  Sunday  when  you 
walked  with  Father,  and  even  Lizbeth 
5° 


knew  you  then  for  a  little  man,  and  peeked 
around  Father's  legs  to  see  you  as  you 
strode  along.  Father  was  proud  of  you, 
too,  though  he  did  not  tell  you.  He  just 
told  other  people  when  he  thought  you 
could  not  hear. 

"Little  pitchers  have  big  ears,"  Mother 
would  warn  him  then,  but  you  heard  quite 
plainly  out  of  one  ear,  and  it  was  small 
at  that. 

Everybody  looked  as  you  three  went 
down  the  shady  street  together,  and  the 
nice  young  ladies  gave  you  smiles  and 
the  nice  old  ladies  gave  you  flowers,  hand- 
ing them  out  to  you  over  their  garden  walls. 

"Thank  you.  My  name  is  Harry/' 
you  said. 

"And  I'm  Lizbeth,"  said  little  sister. 
And  as  you  passed  on  your  stride  grew 
longer  and  your  voice  sank  bigger  and 
deeper  in  your  throat,  like  Father's. 


But  it  wasn't  the  town  you  liked  best 
to  walk  in  with  Father  in  the  long,  warm 
Sunday  afternoons.  It  was  the  river-side, 
where  the  willows  drooped  over  the  running 
waters,  and  the  grass  was  deepest  and 
greenest  and  waved  in  the  sun.  On  the 
meadow -bank  at  the  water's  silver  edge 
you  sat  down  together. 

"  Who  can  hear  the  most?"  asked  Father. 

You  listened. 

"  I  hear  the  river  running  over  the  log," 
you  said,  softly. 

"And  the  birds,"  whispered  Lizbeth. 

"And  the  wind  in  the  willows,"  said 
Father. 

"And  the  cow -bells  tinkling  way,  way 
off,"  you  added,  breathlessly. 

"Oh,  and  I  hear  the  grass  whispering," 
said  Lizbeth. 

"And  oh,  a  bee,"  you  cried. 

"And  something  else,"  said  Father. 
52 


You  held  your  breath  and  listened. 
From  the  distant  village  the  wind  blew 
you  faintly  the  sound  of — 

"Church-bells,"  cried  you  and  Lizbeth 
together. 

You  fell  to  playing  in  the  long  grass. 
Lizbeth  gathered  daisies  for  Mother.  You 
lay  with  your  face  just  over  the  river-bank, 
humming  a  little  song  and  gazing  down 
into  the  mirror  of  the  waters.  You  won- 
dered how  it  would  feel  to  be  a  little  boy- 
fish,  darting  in  and  out  among  the  river 
grasses. 

By-and-by  you  went  back  to  Father  and 
sat  beside  him  with  your  cheek  against  his 
arm. 

"Father." 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think  when  you  don't 
say  anything,  but  just  look?" 

"When  I  just  look?" 
53 


"Yes.     Do  you  think  what  I  do?" 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"Why,  I  think  I'd  like  to  be  a  big  man 
like  you  and  wear  a  long  coat,  and  take 
my  little  boy  and  girl  out  walking.  Did 
you  think  that,  Father?" 

"  No.  I  was  thinking  how  nice  it  would 
be  just  to  be  a  little  boy  again  like  you 
and  go  out  walking  by  the  river  with  my 
father." 

"Oh,  Father,  how  funny!  I  wanted 
to  be  you  and  you  wanted  to  be  me.  I 
guess  people  always  want  to  be  some- 
body else  when  they  just  look  and  don't 
say  anything." 

"What  makes  you  think  that,  my  boy?" 

"Well,  there's  Grandmother.  She  sits 
by  the  window  all  day  long  and  just  looks 
and  looks,  and  wishes  she  was  an  angel 
with  Grandfather  up  in  the  sky." 

"And  Lizbeth?" 

54 


"Oh,  Lizbeth  wishes  she  was  Mother." 

"And  how  about  Mother?  Does  she 
wish  she  were  somebody  else,  do  you 
think?" 

"Oh  no,  Father,  she  doesn't,  'cause 
then  she  wouldn't  have  me  and  Lizbeth. 
Besides,  she  don't  have  time  to  just  sit 
and  look,  Mother  don't." 

Your  eyes  were  big  and  shining.  Father 
just  looked  and  looked  a  long  time. 

"And  what  do  you  think  now,  Father?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Mother  waiting  for 
you  and  Lizbeth  and  Father,  and  wonder- 
ing why  we  don't  come  home." 

And  almost  always  after  that,  when 
you  went  out  walking  with  Father,  Sun- 
days, Mother  went  with  you.  It  seemed 
strange  at  first,  but  fine,  to  have  her  sit 
with  you  on  the  river-bank  and  just  look 
and  look  and  look,  smiling  but  never  say- 
ing a  word;  and  though  you  asked  her 
55 


many  times  what  she  thought  about  as 
she  sat  there  dreaming,  she  was  never 
once  caught  wishing  that  she  were  anybody 
but  her  own  self.  She  was  happy,  she 
told  you;  but  while  it  was  you  she  told, 
she  would  be  looking  at  Father. 

Oh,  it  was  golden  in  the  morning  glow, 
when  you  were  a  little  boy.  But  clouds 
skurried  across  the  sky — black  clouds, 
storm  clouds — casting  their  chill  and 
shadow  for  a  while  over  all  Our  Yard, 
darkening  Our  House,  so  that  a  little  bo}^ 
playing  on  the  hearth-rug  left  his  toy  sol- 
dier prostrate  there  to  wander,  wondering, 
from  room  to  room. 

"Mother,  why  doesn't  Father  play  with 
us  like  he  used  to?" 

"Mother,  why  do  you  sew  and  sew  and 
sew  all  the  time?  Hm,  Mother?" 

All  through  the  long  evenings  till  bed- 
time came,  and  long  afterwards,  Father 
56 


BEGINNING    OVER    AGAIN 


and  Mother  talked  low  together  before  the 
fire.  The  murmur  of  their  voices  down- 
stairs was  the  last  thing  you  heard  before 
you  fell  asleep.  It  sounded  like  the  brook 
in  the  meadow  where  the  little  green  frogs 
lived,  hopping  through  water-rings. 

Of  those  secret  conferences  by  the  fire 
you  could  make  nothing  at  all.  Mother 
stopped  you  whenever  you  drew  near. 

"Run  away,  dear,  and  play." 

You  frowned  and  sidled  off  as  far  as 
the  door,  lingering  wistfully. 

"Father,  the  Jones  boy  made  fun  of 
me  to-day.  He  called  me  Patchy-pants." 

"Never  mind  what  the  Jones  boy  says," 
Mother  broke  in;  but  Father  said,  "He 
ought  to  have  a  new  pair,  Mother."  You 
brightened  at  that. 

"The  Jones  boy's  got  awful  nice  pants," 
you  said;  "all  striped  like  a  zebra." 

Father  smiled  a  little  at  that.  Mother 
57 


£ 


looked  down  at  her  sewing,  saying  never 
a  word.  That  night  you  dreamed  you 
had  new  pants,  all  spotted  like  a  leopard, 
and  you  were  proud,  for  every  one  knows 
that  a  leopard  could  whip  a  zebra,  once 
he  jumped  upon  his  back. 

Leaning  on  the  garden  fence,  the  Jones 
boy  watched  you  as  you  sprinkled  the  gera- 
niums with  your  little  green  watering-can. 

"Where'd  you  get  it?"  he  asked. 

"Down  at  my  father's  store,"  you  re- 
plied, loftily,  for  the  Jones  boy  had  no 
watering-can. 

"Your  father  hasn't  got  a  store  any 
more." 

"He  has,  too,"  you  replied. 

"He  hasn't,  either,  'cause  my  pa  says 
he  hasn't." 

"I  don't  care  what  your  pa  says.  My 
father  has,  too,  got  a  store." 

"He  hasn't." 

58 


"He  has." 

"He  hasn't,  either/' 

"He  has,  teether." 

"I  say  he  hasn't." 

"And  I  say  he  has,"  you  screamed,  and 
threw  the  watering-can  straight  at  the 
Jones  boy.  It  struck  the  fence  and  the 
water  splashed  all  over  him  so  that  he  re- 
treated to  the  road.  There  in  a  rage  he 
hurled  stones  at  you. 

"  Your  —  father  —  hasn't  —  got  —  any — 
store — any — more — old — Patchy-pants — 
old — Patchy-pants — old — ' ' 

And  then  suddenly  the  Jones  boy  fled, 
and  when  you  looked  around  there  was 
Father  standing  behind  you  by  the  gera- 
niums. 

"Never  mind  what  the  Jones  boy  says," 

he  told  you,  and  he  was  not  angry  with 

you  for  throwing  the  watering-can.     The 

little  green  spout  of  it  was  broken  when 

59 


you  picked  it  up,  but  Father  said  he  would 
buy  you  a  new  one. 

"To-morrow,  Father?" 

"No,  not  to-morrow — some  day." 

You  and  Lizbeth,  tumbling  down-stairs 
to  breakfast,  found  Father  sitting  before 
the  fire. 

"Father!"  you  cried,  astonished,  for  it 
was  not  Sunday,  and  though  you  ran  to 
him  he  did  not  hear  you  till  you  pounced 
upon  him  in  his  chair. 

"Oh,  Father,"  you  said,  joyfully,  "are 
you  going  to  stay  home  and  play  with  us 
all  day?" 

"Fa-ther!"  cried  Lizbeth.  "Will  you 
play  house  with  us?" 

"  Oh  no,  Father.  Play  store  with  us," 
you  cried. 

"Don't    bother    Father,"   Mother    said, 
but  Father  just  held  you  both  in  his  arms 
and  would  not  let  you  go. 
60 


"No  —  let  them  stay,"  he  said,  and 
Mother  slipped  away. 

"Mother's  got  an  awful  cold,"  said  Liz- 
beth.  "Her  eyes—" 

"So  has  Father;  only  Father's  cold  is 
in  his  voice,"  you  said. 

You  scarcely  waited  to  eat  your  break- 
fast before  you  were  back  again  to  Father 
by  the  fire,  telling  him  of  the  beautiful 
games  just  three  could  play.  But  while 
you  were  telling  him  the  door -bell  rang, 
and  there  were  two  men  with  books  un- 
der their  arms,  come  to  see  Father.  They 
stayed  with  him  all  day  long — you  could 
hear  them  muttering  in  the  library — 
and  all  day  you  looked  wistfully  at  the 
closed  door,  lingering  there  lest  Father 
should  come  out  to  play  and  find  you  gone. 

He  did  not  come  out  till  dinner-time. 
After  dinner  he  walked  in  the  garden  alone. 
He  held  a  cigar  in  his  clinched  teeth. 

6T 


"Why  don't  you  smoke  the  cigar,  Fa- 
ther?" 

He  did  not  hear  you.  He  just  walked 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  ground  and  his  hands  thrust  hard 
into  the  pockets  of  his  coat. 

Mother  watched  him  for  a  moment 
through  the  window.  Then  with  her  own 
hands  she  built  a  fire  in  the  grate,  for 
the  night  was  chill.  Befo  e  it  she  drew 
an  easy-chair,  and  put  Father's  smoking- 
jacket  on  the  back  of  it  and  set  his  slip- 
pers to  warm  against  the  fender.  On  a 
reading  -  table  near  by  she  laid  the  little 
blue  china  ash-tray  you  had  given  Father 
for  Christmas,  and  beside  it  a  box  of 
matches  ready  for  his  hand.  Then  she 
called  him  in. 

He  came  and  sat  there  before  the  fire, 
saying  nothing,  but  looking  into  the  flames 
— looking,  looking,  till  your  mind  ran  back 
62 


to  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  summer  by  the 
river-side. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  Father." 

Slowly  he  turned  his  head  to  you,  so 
that  you  knew  he  was  listening  though 
he  did  not  speak. 

"You're  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be, 
Father,  if  you  were  a  little  boy  like  me." 

He  made  no  answer.  Mother  came  and 
sat  on  one  of  the  arms  of  his  chair,  her 
cheek  against  his  hair.  Lizbeth  undressed 
her  dolls  for  the  night,  crooning  a  lullaby. 
One  by  one  you  dropped  your  marbles 
into  their  little  box.  Then  you  rose  and 
sat  like  Mother  on  an  arm  of  Father's 
chair.  For  a  while  you  dreamed  there, 
drowsy,  in  the  glow. 

"Mother,"  you  said,  softly. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back  to  you. 

"Mother,  isn't  it  fine?"  you  said. 

"Fine,  dearie?" 

63 


"Yes,  Mother,  everything  .  .  .  'special- 

ly-" 

"Yes,  sweetheart?" 

" — 'specially  just  having  Father." 

Father  gave  a  little  jump;  seized  you; 
crushed  you  in  his  arms,  stars  shining 
*  in  his  brimming  eyes. 

"Little  chap — little  chap,"  he  cried,  but 
could  get  no  further,  till  by-and-by — 

"Mother,"  he  said — and  his  voice  was 
clear  and  strong — "Mother,  with  a  little 
chap  like  that  and  two  girls  like  you  and 
Lizbeth— " 

His  voice  caught,  but  he  shook  it  free 
again. 


"  — any  man  could  begin — all  over  again 


— and  win''  he  said. 


A     000  051  407     5 


